It was why, he thought, they had made sure that his own bitterness and resentment were hidden. Very, very well hidden, and for a very long time. The Five were, in most ways, not hidden at all, not in Salem. They had their customs, their beliefs, but townsfolk outside the Five were aware of those. And aware of their Talents. The Five had most of the money and the land, and the authority.

The elders were very much in charge. Set themselves up fine, they had.

And held on to what they had. Built on it.

And the others, the families that had followed them or trailed into Salem in the centuries since, had for the most part simply accepted the way things were. Those without Talents saw nothing unusual about the town, accepting the “superstitions” of mountain folk with a careless shrug if they didn’t believe, and accepting Talents matter-of-factly if they did. And those others with Talents of their own . . . well, they remained apart from the Five even so. In many subtle ways and a few obvious ones, they were . . . lesser.

And maybe some of them didn’t resent it.

Stupid bastards.

His grandmother had told him. She’d learned from her own grandmother, and she from hers, about the way things had been here in the old days. The Five, traveling from some unnamed or just forgotten place over in Europe to arrive in a very, very young America that hadn’t even borne that name for long. Not settling in any of the established places or colonies but seeking one of their own. A place of their own. Either avoiding the Native Americans along the way or managing a tenuous peace with them. And when they had settled here, the Five, there was still no conflict with natives because none had lived or even hunted here.

And nobody had bothered to ask the Cherokee as white settlers increasingly drove them and other Native Americans farther west. Nobody had asked what was wrong about the valley that held the settlement that became a town named Salem.

But he knew.

He stood on the mountain slope gazing over the valley for a moment, until his attention was caught by two crows settling on the bare limb of a big oak tree about a hundred yards from his position. His eyes narrowed as he watched them.

He considered briefly, then shrugged and turned away, moving farther back into the thick undergrowth of holly bushes and picking his way among the granite boulders and outcroppings.

It was, he thought, a good place to begin.

He checked the duct tape holding his guest securely just to make sure, ignoring the muffled, angry sounds coming from the mouth covered with tape. He studied what he could see of the face, noting eyes that were also angry—and afraid.

He liked the fear.

He stepped back, smiled at his guest, and began to concentrate. And as he concentrated, he saw those eyes grow more afraid, saw them widen, blink.